


Sugar Cubes and Rubies

by aldiara



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Horses, Humor, Jewelry, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Pining, Redheads Have More Fun, Reunion Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-19 20:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20663549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: Horses are smelly and alarming and Ancel definitely doesn’t understand or like his, nor is he missing Berenger at all, what are you talking about.





	Sugar Cubes and Rubies

**Author's Note:**

> Catty redheads are my crack. Mild D/s if you squint. Questionable horse care.
> 
> Enormous thanks to my lovely beta Alsha! ♥

***

Ancel was aware that his boredom had reached alarming proportions when he started voluntarily spending time with his horse.

He was also aware that there was a good chance he was wrecking his own reputation. Parsins, when informed that Ancel was going for a ride, visibly choked on his tongue, and the groom, who’d had the sharp side of Ancel’s tongue on more than one occasion, straight-out fled whenever he saw him enter the stable. (That was particularly vexing, as it meant that Ancel had to learn how to bridle and saddle the horse.) It was unlikely that either of the men would get a chance to tattle to anyone important, but all it took was some ill-advised drunken chatter with somebody’s servant in some inn, and before he knew it, half the court would be tittering about Lord Berenger’s pet rolling around in stables or roaming the countryside by himself like a common vagrant. It was all extremely tiresome, Ancel reflected as he put his heels to Ruby’s flanks and let her have her head.

The strawberry roan took to the open country with eagerness, covering ground with her long, elegant gait. Drilled by Berenger to the point of tedium on the importance of handling her with a soft hand, Ancel kept his direction to a minimum, letting the mare enjoy the run and the breeze cool his irritable skin. As soon as he had realised the rides might be a regular occurrence, he’d sent Parsins for the tailor with an order for half a dozen sets of riding clothes in what the tailor had protested were much too fine materials for riding. Ancel had insisted on silk shirts instead of linen, although he’d grudgingly given in to buckskin breeches when the tailor had told him anything finer would give him a chafing rash. He supposed the breeches worked well enough, though he was glad now for his choice in shirt; the silk moving against his skin in the breeze was infinitely more pleasant than linen could ever be.

He returned from the ride marginally less edgy, though still far from content, and walked Ruby through her cool-down before taking her into the stable for her grooming.

It didn’t help that Ancel had brought the boredom on himself. It was going on three weeks that Berenger had been absent, gone north on some dull diplomatic mission to Vask. Ancel had initially been resigned to accompanying him but had point-blank refused when it turned out that the boring diplomacy was to take place during a lengthy hunting expedition and that everything would be in the Vaskian style. Which meant no modicum of comfort, only stinking leather tents and cooking on spits over open fires and no decent entertainment. Berenger had seemed disappointed in his quiet way but he had not argued. A week in, Ancel had wished that he had. The Vaskians might be barbarians but they’d probably have been more entertaining than sitting around at home with only minimal staff, and he could have diverted himself with Berenger. 

Instead, the horse. Out of sheer restlessness, Ancel got into the habit of daily rides, appreciating grudgingly that Ruby moved much better and was a lot more even-tempered than some of the other horrid beasts he’d had occasion to ride. Horses were stupid, though. She never seemed to understand that he didn’t like it when she lipped at his hair or rubbed her head against his shoulder, getting her horse stink all over him. It got a little better once he started to carry sugar cubes to stop her from assaulting him, but she would still insist on nosing and nudging him and blowing horse-breath in his face. In his time with Berenger, he’d come to learn a lot about the man, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever understand the way his face animated and his voice grew warm with affection when it came to the subject of horses. (Adding insult to the mystery was the fact that it wasn’t too far off the way he acted when they were in bed.)

In an effort to fill more time with the daily rides and also to contain the beast’s pungent affections, Ancel had started to groom her after rides, sending the stablehand into another silent fit of bug-eyed fidgety conniptions. He did it listlessly at first, and probably badly if Ruby’s restless prancing and shoulder-twitching were anything to go by. It took him a few days to figure out which way to brush, and which areas needed extra attention. (He could have asked the groom, he supposed, but there was some moderate entertainment to be had from the boy’s pained expressions and occasional flinches from across the stable.) 

Against his expectations, though, he fell into a rhythm with it, and the ritual of grooming the horse became, if not exactly pleasurable, at least a decent way to kill a bit more time. Calming the horse seemed to soothe away what restless energy still lingered in him after the daily ride, and brushing her long mane and tail to a glossy sheen brought a satisfaction similar to what he got from brushing out his own hair. 

It could, of course, only help so far. What he really needed was the glittering intrigue of court, some decent gossip, a few rivals to destroy, and a decent fuck. It irritated him no end that the stable, despite its horrid odours and dust and scratchy straw, reminded him of Berenger, of his vitality when he came in from a ride, of how he’d sometimes come to find Ancel without bathing first, the feel of his still-sweaty skin against his own. Ancel would protest viciously, of course, but was grumpily aware that from the heated results of such encounters, Berenger must know that for a sham. If he had any true objection, Berenger would honour it. 

Caught unawares in such useless contemplations during their post-ride grooming session, Ancel shifted against the untimely tightness in his trousers. “How long can it possibly take to smear some honey all over a bunch of barbarians?” he demanded irritably of the horse as he ran the curry comb over her flank in vigorous circles. “Especially when they’re more like bears than women, anyway?”

More like bears than women, and probably not particularly taken with a man whose interests ran decidedly to the cerebral. A man who was unlikely to take to the Vaskians’ rough jokes and rude diversions; whom their ice-minded King shouldn’t have sent on such a mission in the first place. 

A man who might have done much better, and run much less risk of getting his dull bookish head ripped off by fur-wrapped viragos, had he had the sense to insist his pet accompany him to lighten the mood.

Ancel cursed to himself, quietly and at length.

Ruby had no interest in Vaskians. She shifted from one foot to the other, gently but insistently shouldering Ancel against the side of her stall. 

“Stop that,” he told her. “You’re getting horse hair on me.”

Ruby confirmed this by rubbing her head against his arm, craftily nudging it out of the way to nose at his pocket.

“Fine, here, have it, but then stop squashing me. Ruby!”

Ruby had snatched up the sugar cube she’d extorted but immediately came back for more.

“Ugh, I said stop it. Bad horse. Bad!”

A soft noise of amusement startled him badly enough that he nearly poked Ruby in the eye with the curry comb. Then he rallied, welcoming the opportunity to give the groom the tongue-lashing of his life for daring to sneak up and laugh at him.

But it was not the groom. Berenger was leaning against the front of the stall, his arms on the top of the door. “I’m not sure bribing her with treats will ever gain you her respect, you know,” he commented dryly. “And you shouldn’t be giving her sugar, it’s bad for her teeth.”

“She likes sugar. And I don’t want her respect, I just want her not to slobber on me,” Ancel retorted, shoving Ruby’s inquisitive nose out of his hair. Belatedly, he could hear raised voices out in the courtyard, the groom leading in Berenger’s horse. Belatedly, he realised he was in simple riding clothes, with his hair tied back and probably decorated with straw or horse saliva. Belatedly, he remembered that Berenger _liked_ simple things because he was contrary and perverted; Ancel would work with it. 

Having no warning to prepare to work with it, though, was unacceptable. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. It came out sounding rather waspish, although his heart was pounding.

Berenger cocked a brow at him and reached a hand out to the horse, who promptly wandered over to push her nose into his palm, the traitor. “I live here.”

He was wearing his cloak still, and looked dusty from the road. Leaner than usual, too, and his face was tanned several shades darker. Ancel muscled Ruby’s hindquarters out of the way to get out of his corner. Berenger watched him coming, taking in his riding apparel but saying nothing.

“I told Parsins to set a man watching the road. I told him I wanted to be informed the minute you were seen, so I could…”

“Dash to the stables and enthral me with some elaborately staged scenario in which you pretend to enjoy the company of your horse?” 

Ancel glowered at this clear insult to his staging capabilities. “This is not pretend.”

Berenger tossed him an amused look over Ruby’s pushy head. Ancel glowered harder. “I don’t mean I enjoy her company. She’s a horse. She doesn’t do anything. I meant if I were pretending, it would look a lot better than this.”

“Mhm. And if you were pretending, you’d be whispering sweet lying nothings, not snapping at me, presumably.”

“Why was I not informed you were coming? I’m going to kill Parsins.”

“You’re going to do no such thing. I asked him not to tell you,” Berenger said, patting Ruby’s sleek neck.

“What? Why?” Ancel spluttered.

“Because this is a lot more diverting than whatever welcome you might have prepared,” Berenger assured him, with a slight twitch to his mouth.

“Hmph. You’ll never know now,” Ancel grumbled, but his heart wasn’t quite in it. It was strange to quibble like this when only minutes before he had been restless with vague worry, and thoroughly annoyed about it, and now the object of his worry was right here, murmuring soft words to the horse. She stepped aside neatly when Berenger raised the latch on the stall and came inside, closing the door behind him. 

Between the horse and the two of them, it was very close quarters. Ancel’s pulse sped up as Berenger manoeuvred around Ruby. One of his hands still trailed along her glossy flank as he stepped closer, but his eyes were on Ancel, serious now.

“Hello,” he said. His hand, having run out of horse, hung in the air for a moment, as if he were about to touch Ancel instead, but then it dropped to his side. 

Ancel felt weirdly disappointed, and more nervous than reason could account for. It was the first time they’d been separated for anything longer than a few days. He’d assumed things would resume as normal upon Berenger’s return. He would not have minded being touched, even with road grime and horse smell on Berenger’s fingers.

“Hello,” he said, trying to stretch it into a smooth drawl, a little bored. “How were the Vaskians?”

Berenger rolled his shoulders under his cloak, as if to tip some unseen burden off them. “Amenable. Somewhat too hospitable. I’ll be glad not to taste what they call drink again for some time.” His mouth twitched. “I had to graciously decline several studding offers. Apparently King Damianos was very kind in accommodating them, last year.”

Ancel tsked his disapproval. “You should have done it, then. Shown him up.”

Berenger’s expression was unreadable. “I did not wish to.”

They stood facing each other in silence for several agonising moments. Ancel shifted from one foot to the other and disguised the motion by hanging the curry comb up on the wall. This was imbecilic. By now they should be fucking.

Instead, Berenger was watching him, taking in everything from his dusty boots to his probably equally dusty hair. Curse Parsins and his loyalty. If it _had_ to be in a stable, Ancel could have prepared things properly. He could have had a divan brought to one of the empty stalls, draped the wood and straw in swathes of silks and velvets. He could have been bathed and scented, waiting with wine and his hair down. He could have worn riding boots, newly polished, and nothing else. Perhaps a crop.

He sighed at the wasted opportunity. 

Berenger cleared his throat. “There were a lot of campfires.” Ancel opened his mouth to affirm how glad he was he hadn’t come, but Berenger was still talking. “They reminded me of you.” He had, at last, taken a step closer. He reached out after all, slowly, as if not certain how it might be received, and ran a long strand of Ancel’s hair between his fingers before tucking it behind Ancel’s ear. “They made me think of you, dancing with your fire sticks. The Vaskians would have enjoyed seeing it.” He drew a breath. “I missed you.”

It came out like something dredged from a deep and private place, a concession not altogether comfortable, nothing like the soft-voiced flattery it might have been in someone else’s mouth. Ancel swallowed down the nonsense bubbling of warmth inside him.

“You should have told me to come with you.”

“You said you didn’t want to go.”

Ancel huffed impatiently. “You shouldn’t always listen to everything I say.” It was the closest he could come to returning that awkward _I missed you_, and even that much felt precipitous, as if he was giving up a weapon.

But perhaps Berenger understood; at any rate, his mouth softened and his hand cupped around Ancel’s neck, thumb gently stroking. Up this close, Ancel could see traces of exhaustion in his face: smudges beneath his eyes, a lingering tension in the jaw. On impulse, he reached up, walking his fingers down the side of Berenger’s face, smoothing out lines and brushing away road dust. Berenger closed his eyes and held still for it, not moving except for a slight tilt towards the caress. 

Ancel kept it up, not certain what else to do. He would have offered a more effective method of relieving tiredness, but wasn’t sure he should; Berenger had the oddest notions about when and where such things were proper. For all he knew, he’d be stuck here petting at him awkwardly until Berenger decided he had to catch up on paperwork.

It was Ruby who rescued him. Clearly grown weary at having to share her space with two humans who failed to pay her due attention, she had turned around and without warning put her head over Berenger’s shoulder, pushing hard to get at Ancel’s pockets. 

Berenger made an alarmed noise; for a second, the horse’s bulk pressed him close against Ancel, and in that moment Ancel learned, with some relief, that Berenger’s mind was not on paperwork. Then he extricated himself and pushed at the horse’s shoulder, shaking his head when Ancel gave her another sugar cube to persuade her to back off. 

“You’ve got her spoiled rotten,” he reproved, but there was a hint of laughter in his voice.

Ancel shrugged. “I needed a way to get her to stop mouthing at me. Why do they do that?”

“It means she likes you.”

Ancel scrunched up his nose. “Do you like her?” Berenger inquired, with an exaggerated politeness that could not quite mask the twitching of his mouth.

Ancel shot Ruby a glare that was probably somewhat less efficient for the pat that came with it. “She smells and she’s a bossy nuisance.”

“Uh huh.” Berenger coughed, averting his face. “Oh, by the way…” He reached into his pocket. “I brought you something, but–” 

“You did? What is it? Can I see?” Ancel was already reaching for the red velvet pouch, but Berenger held it out of his reach, trying in vain to look grave.

“_But_ I’m afraid it won’t go with your current apparel. Perhaps I had better exchange it for some nice braided leather.”

Ancel narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you dare. Let me have it.” He was in Berenger’s space, all but bouncing on his toes to increase his reach. Belatedly it occurred to him that it was neither very alluring nor exactly in keeping with his current appearance to bodily throw himself at a lord to tussle for some trinket; he should have lounged against the stall door and pretended demure disinterest in earthly gifts. 

Berenger, though, was looking at him with that poorly concealed laugh still curving his mouth and sparkling in his eyes. His free arm wrapped around Ancel’s waist and pulled him close; his lips pressed a brief kiss against Ancel’s temple before he relented, dropped the heavy pouch into Ancel’s hand and let him go. “There you are, then.”

Ancel, who had expected something more ardent and demanding, stood still for a moment, confused by the warm simplicity of the hug and the fond regard in Berenger’s face. 

Then the heavy weight of velvet in his hand reminded him why they had tussled in the first place. He plucked eagerly at the silk ties and stared at the object that tumbled out into his palm.

The bracelet was red on red on red: a wide but delicate cuff of warm rose gold laced with dozens of small oval cut-outs, both edges crusted generously with dark-red garnets. At the centre sat a flaming ruby the size of a large quail egg, so exquisitely faceted it seemed to catch every errant speck of light and spew it back as flame. Against the intricate lacework of pink gold, the garnets glowed elegantly and the ruby shimmered with a fierce red fire. No one could have called it modest, but the design was sophisticated enough to steer well clear of gaudy.

It was also, Ancel’s practised eye could tell, worth a small fortune.

Ancel turned it this way and that, unable to take his eyes off its rose and ruby glow. It had of late become the fashion among Veretian nobility to wear prominent cuffs, inspired by the plain gold bands both of the kings still wore around one wrist. Fashion had, of course, quickly veered off from plain. Most of the bracelets favoured at court were increasingly elaborate, often incorporating some specific precious metal or gemstone a noble’s province was famed for, or some intricately carved representation of their house.

This cuff bore no such insignia, of course, but then the bracelets were high-priced commissions from the most renowned jewellers, to be worn only by the wealthiest of the aristocracy. No one, not even the grandest of the grand, had as yet bestowed one upon a pet.

He looked up at Berenger, who was petting the horse but watching Ancel, a little tense. “Do you like it?”

“It’s perfect.” Ancel put it on, felt the cool clasp of the gold, the balance of lightness and solidity. “Perfect,” he repeated, and this time when he met Berenger’s dark eyes, he didn’t bother with proprieties. It only took a step; the stall was not big. 

He leaned in to place a kiss on Berenger’s lips, close-lipped, deliberately chaste; pulled back and smiled into his eyes to say, throatily, “Thank you.” He knew the picture he made, a sweetly smiling youth in (somewhat) simple riding attire, red hair in a messy tail, bestowing an innocent kiss of thanks. He saw Berenger recognise the performative aspect of it, saw him momentarily teeter between disapproval and reluctant enchantment.

Ancel posed until he caught the flicker of wry appreciation that had become familiar between them whenever Berenger’s need for complete honesty fetched up against Ancel’s penchant for theatrics. Then he dropped it altogether and followed up the chaste kiss with a proper one, using his lips and tongue and all the skill he had, plus three weeks of aggravated frustration. Berenger’s mouth was warm and hungry and his hands were cupping Ancel’s face, pulling him in closer. When they accidentally backed into the disgruntled horse, Ancel broke the kiss. They were both breathing hard.

“I want you,” Ancel said, his hands already dropping to Berenger’s laces. “It’s been too fucking long.”

He saw Berenger swallow, watched his pupils expand. “The house…”

“No. Here.” Ancel cupped his hand between Berenger’s thighs and grinned at what he felt there. “You wouldn’t make it to the house.”

Berenger groaned, a hoarse sound of pent-up need, and tightened his arms around Ancel. “Not in here with Ruby, you madman,” he murmured against his lips. “Wait. Let’s just…”

He manoeuvred them, rather clumsily because Ancel had no intentions of keeping his hands to himself now that he didn’t have to, into the next stall over, which stood empty. There were straw bales stacked on one side, some hooks and shelves for tack against the back wall. They stumbled against the free wall. Berenger struggled out of his cloak and tossed it on the straw bales, then pulled at Ancel’s shirt, bunching handfuls of silk in his fists in his urgency.

“Don’t tear it!” Ancel warned, but then Berenger’s palms spread across his nipples and he lost interest in the shirt, which drifted to the floor. 

Ancel had had a vague notion of showing his thanks for the gift by going to his knees, but Berenger would not stop kissing him. He had pulled the tie off Ancel’s hair and was running his fingers through it, grabbing handfuls to curtain their kisses. Ancel felt his residual anxiety disperse, chased away by the reality of Berenger’s hands on him, the sensation of his bare chest against Ancel’s, the heat of his desire.

In the event, it was Berenger who went to his knees, tugging loose Ancel’s breeches. Ancel cursed at the first touch to his starved, over-heated skin. “I’m not bathed. I smell of horse.”

It was a half-hearted protest at best, and Berenger did not reply, merely swirled his tongue, a maddeningly fleeting swipe. Ancel bit his lip, swore again, and shoved his hips forward when Berenger took in the tip. “Never mind, you _like_ horse smell. Pervert.”

There was a muffled sound of amusement, and then Berenger opened up, taking more. He did not have Ancel’s finesse or capacity, but made up for it with devotion to the task; there was, from him, an awkward urgency to the act that made it somehow better. Aside from that, Ancel was not above enjoying the sheer fact of having a lord on his knees, servicing him like a pet. He grabbed Berenger’s hair and watched the slide of his wet lips, the contrast of the red-gold cuff against his dark hair. Berenger’s eyes were closed, a small furrow of concentration between his brows. 

“Look at me.”

He gazed down into eyes nearly black with need. Berenger’s hands were clenched around Ancel’s thighs, trying to pull him deeper than Ancel knew he could handle, not being naturally inclined towards opening his throat. Ancel gave into the tug for a moment anyway, thrusting deep enough to feel his whole length encased, until he felt the convulsive motion that heralded a gag. He murmured something soothing and pulled back, settling into a shallower pace. Berenger’s lids were drifting shut again. He’d moved one hand around Ancel’s base and stroked him there, matching the rhythm of his mouth. The roughened catch of his calloused fingers on his most sensitive skin was exquisite.

Ancel let himself rock into it, enjoying an interval of abandon during which he entertained the notion of finishing it now and painting Berenger’s face with come. But there was a quality of longing to the contained focus in Berenger’s face and body, the deliberate stilling of his hips, that Ancel had come to recognise, and he thought of something better.

“Wait.” 

He hauled Berenger up despite his half-hearted protests, stole a quick kiss off his reddened, wet lips, and then turned him around and pushed him up against the side of the stall. “Stay there. Don’t move.”

Berenger inhaled a shaky breath, his hips tilting back, which confirmed to Ancel what he’d already suspected. He’d spotted the bits of gear and cleaning supplies on the shelf towards the back; a quick excursion rewarded him with a flask of saddle oil. He sniffed it quickly. Olive. It would do.

Berenger had obeyed his order not to move. He stood with his head down, wide shoulders heaving slightly. Ancel ran a hand up his exposed nape, feeling the small round protrusions of the vertebrae, the fine hairs thickening as he reached the hairline. He slid his fingers around to where the pulse thudded in the hidden vein, going fast.

He stopped a moment to gather himself. His trousers hung open; his cock was throbbing, plied by Berenger’s mouth to near-aching sensitivity. Ancel shut his eyes against the sight of it, hard and still wet from Berenger’s tongue, and counted silently to ten.

Berenger shifted against him. “Ancel?” He too was tense with palpable need, his voice roughened from using his mouth, which didn’t help with Ancel’s self-control. His forehead had dropped to Berenger’s shoulder. He rubbed his cheek against it in quick reassurance, then took a deep breath and collected himself.

“I told you not to move,” he admonished, and reached around Berenger’s hip. His riding trousers, cut snug, hid nothing. Ancel unlaced them slowly, tug by lazy tug, pausing in between to cup the straining bulge in his hand, stroking with firm, unhurried pressure. His other hand was settled on Berenger’s hip, without much force, just a reminder to stay in place.

Berenger was panting harshly, eyes squeezed shut. Ancel could feel his struggle to stay still, not to rut into the caressing hand. At last, the laces fell apart. Ancel tugged and pushed the trousers down until they pooled around the tops of Berenger’s boots. He gave a single, appreciative stroke to Berenger’s hot length, then moved his hands away, ignoring the bitten-off protest. He crowded into the space between Berenger’s legs, nudging them apart with his knee, with a calculated degree of roughness to which Berenger responded with a poorly suppressed moan. Ancel palmed his buttocks, stroking lightly. His fingers traced muscles taut from riding, then moved down to explore the pleasing curve where thigh met rear. 

Berenger did not move, as such, but there was a gathered anticipation in him that manifested in small twitches, a subtle settling of his flesh against Ancel’s hands. Ancel heard him swallow.

“Get on with it and stop teasing me.”

Ancel gave him a light smack in retaliation. “I’ve barely started. And don’t boss me.” He was, however, in increasingly urgent condition himself, with the warm press of those muscled curves against his rock-hard cock, so after a few more minutes of stroking and fondling, he drizzled some of the oil on his fingers and sought the warm entrance to Berenger’s body. Berenger sucked in a gasp of air as he was breached; for a second, he tightened up, and Ancel concentrated his motion into small, coaxing strokes until the muscle gave a bit. 

He set aside his own pressing concern for the moment, contenting himself with working his fingers deeper, feeling the incremental give, the hesitant responses. When Berenger’s hips took up a furtive, unmistakable rhythm, he leaned forward, brushing his lips against Berenger’s ear.

“Did you dream of it like this?” he asked, making his voice a teasing purr. “Being taken by a pretty stablehand against the side of a stall like a common tart?”

Berenger made a strangled noise that Ancel took for assent. He grinned and twisted his fingers in small, firm circles. “You might have told me.”

Berenger squirmed against him, still tense despite the intimate engagement. “I didn’t – want you to – feel you had to-”

“You fool,” Ancel growled in his ear. “If I have free choice, then you don’t get to determine whether I might choose to do something that gives you pleasure. I enjoy your pleasure.” He nipped the lobe, not gently.

“But to pretend such a thing, when I know you’re not-”

“You know shit,” Ancel told him, underlining it with a faster motion of his fingers that had Berenger gasping. “Not all pretence is bad. It’s only bedplay, and there’s nothing wrong with indulging in someone else’s fantasy. Now, I’ve had enough of your talking, and definitely enough of your trying to decide what’s best for me. Shut up and take it like the slut you are.”

Ancel could feel the exact moment when the wavering remnant of prudish restraint fell apart. It was a giving in of the whole lean body pressed against his: a comprehensive surrender, a loosening of control always too tightly held. The clenched thighs gave; the muscles softened. His head tipped back onto Ancel’s shoulder, eyes shut, lips soft and parted. 

“That’s right. No more thinking, or planning, or trying to be in charge. I’m going to fuck the brains right out of you. Till all you can think about is how hard I’m going to make you come.” He was murmuring into Berenger’s ear, making his words a throaty mix of threat and caress. Berenger shuddered into him, his entire body an invitation.

Ancel readied himself quickly, with economic motions deliberately avoiding more stimulation. He pushed inside against minimum resistance, letting Berenger feel it, pressed up against his back for a long moment with his cock all the way inside. He skimmed his fingers across Berenger’s taut belly, following the outline of hard abdominal muscle, then moved to the softer skin at the groove of hip and thigh. He stroked the juncture there until Berenger voiced a strangled plea. 

Then he started fucking. 

He’d known that he enjoyed this but hadn’t, before Berenger, had much opportunity. When you worked in a whorehouse or on a contract looking like Ancel did, your marks had expectations. Some, like Louans, contented themselves with squinting and pretending it was a pretty girl they fucked. Others might enjoy his body as it was but still preferred to be on top. 

Even Berenger, less rigid in his predilections than one might assume from a man so obnoxiously conventional, would have taken lengthy and unnecessary amounts of time over letting Ancel know he might embrace the occasional reversal, if Ancel did not possess a pair of working eyes and good instincts for men’s pleasure. To him, it was not in the least surprising that someone like Berenger, whose every day was consumed with sorting out other people’s endless problems and shouldering more responsibilities than good sense demanded, would relish sometimes ceding control to someone else in the bedchamber. 

Ancel, anticipating Berenger’s careful implications on a number of previous occasions, had thought the matter well understood. Apparently, though, there were layers to it that still required the assurance of practical application. That was fine.

The wall they were braced against had started creaking with the force of his thrusts, but Ancel was reasonably sure the enclosure would hold, being built for horses.

Berenger fumbled for his cock with one hand, jerking himself urgently. “No,” Ancel snarled in his ear, and knew a grim delight at the prompt way Berenger’s hand froze. “Put it back.” He put his hands over Berenger’s on top of the wooden stall, twining their fingers together and fixing Berenger’s hands in place. “No touching,” he instructed harshly. “Just this. You come on my cock or you don’t come at all.”

There was a groan at that, half plaintive, half – well, that was interesting – intrigued. Ancel grinned and rolled his hips, seeking the spot that made Berenger’s knees buckle. “That would be dreadful, wouldn’t it?” he asked conversationally. “Me, having taken my pleasure from you, leaving you still hard and aching, with my spend dripping down your legs?”

Berenger’s fingers clenched around the top of the stall so hard his knuckles whitened. He said something, hoarsely, under his breath. Ancel took it at first for a simple “Fuck me,” which he’d have been happy to oblige. It took him a moment to realise what it had actually been was “Wreck me.” He missed a stroke, suspended momentarily in a strange assault of feeling: pleasure, power, tenderness, the fierce joy of possession tangled with a sly streak of doubt. He stilled for a second with his hands tight around Berenger’s wrists, his focus shattered by the weight of trust in those two simple words, _Wreck me._

Then he felt Berenger start to tense up, catching the change in mood, and made himself rally. “Oh, I will,” he promised, running his hands up Berenger’s forearms, over his shoulders, and finally wrapping his arms around his chest, pinning him in place. He resumed movement slowly at first, a slight rocking inside, until he felt Berenger relax into it. Then he withdrew almost all the way. “Hold on,” he said roughly, and slammed back inside, hard enough to coax a short cry from Berenger. He kept the pace fast and deep, adjusting his angle to target the small round gland. A low, desperate growl was rising in Berenger’s chest. Ancel could feel it vibrating through the man’s broad back, against his own sweaty chest. “Yes, like that, take it,” he pushed out through the tangle of emotion. He rubbed his peaked nipples over Berenger’s skin, hissing at the pleasure of the friction. His balls felt heavy, overfull; he couldn’t last much longer.

He _would _damn well last long enough to bring Berenger over first. He leaned in hard, hips rutting against Berenger, and brought one hand up to cup it around the long exposed curve of Berenger’s throat. He wrapped his fingers around the vulnerable windpipe – without pressure, just letting Berenger feel the warmth and control of it, and enjoying the sight of his fingers against Berenger’s skin. The rose-gold of his cuff gleamed at him, the garnets glowing darkly, the ruby spitting fire with his every motion. He bit his lip and rammed home.

“Give it up,” he told Berenger with a harsh pant. “Now.”

Berenger’s response was near-instant, as if he’d been on the brink since they began, merely awaiting permission. His head pushed back into Ancel’s shoulder as he convulsed, his entire body tense and arching, with a hoarse, devastated cry. Ancel stayed inside, enjoying the tight contractions around his cock. When Berenger spurted against the wooden wall, Ancel rewarded him by touching him after all, sliding his hand firmly down the silky-hot, slick flesh. Looking down, he admired the glint of the ruby on his wrist, moving with every wet pull on Berenger’s cock, which was red as well, a complementary dusky shade. He felt rather smug when Berenger responded with another shuddering burst.

“Ancel…”

“Yes. Just like that,” he hissed, pumping his hand. “Look at you, coming all over yourself in the straw and muck like some wanton stable boy. Here, taste it.” He lifted his slippery hand to Berenger’s mouth, painting his gasping lips with his own come. Berenger’s lips closed around his fingers. “That’s right. Suck them clean. I don’t want your spend on my new cuff.”

Berenger sucked his fingers clean around great heaving gasps of breath. He had tottered against the stable wall and might have collapsed had Ancel not been pinning him against it. He’d gone so long holding back that the throbbing ache had reached a place of exquisite near-agony. Holding Berenger in place, he thrust into his loosened body with single-minded abandon, losing himself in the sharp joy of fucking until the heat of his own crisis momentarily blanked out the stable and the dust, everything except the tightness clasping him and the sheer pleasure of release.

They stood locked together, sweaty and trembling, until Ancel regained some modicum of awareness. Berenger’s head had dropped forward again, onto the top of the wall. Ancel withdrew as carefully as he could and made a shaky attempt at clean-up with his now-ruined shirt, before he tugged Berenger off the wall with an arm around his waist.

“Easy now. On the straw bales, here. The blanket smells of horse, but I can hardly be blamed for locale.”

A tiny snort. “Oh, can you not?”

“I’m not the degenerate who likes the reek of horses.”

“No. But you are a menace.” Berenger’s voice was low and fond, his eyes closed. Late afternoon sun caressed his flushed cheeks with a soft golden glow. He looked tousled and utterly spent, and younger than usual.

Ancel sneezed. “I hate stables.”

“Mhm. Of course you do.”

As if on cue, a long reddish head poked over the top of the stall, soft lips blowing inquisitively at Ancel’s hair. “Go away, Ruby. I’m out of sugar cubes.”

***

“You need one too,” he declared later, when they were both somewhat recovered. He was sitting up to try and get the straw out of his hair, despairing at the task until he was distracted again by the red glow of the ruby and held his hand out in front of himself to admire the way the pale gold clasped his wrist, the way the gemstones caught the dusty sunlight penetrating through the stable walls.

Behind him, there was a rustle of straw – disgusting stuff, it got everywhere – as Berenger sat up and patiently picked up where Ancel had left off, plucking bits out of Ancel’s hair. 

“No I don’t.”

“You do,” Ancel insisted. “You can’t go around having your pet wear jewellery that you should be wearing. They’ll think-”

“I don’t care what they’ll think,” Berenger interrupted, leaning in to kiss Ancel’s bare shoulder. 

Ancel huffed his exasperation, even though Berenger’s warm lips moving on his skin were making him shiver pleasantly.

“Well, you should. You stand high among the King’s men now, higher than most. You need to pay some attention to how you appear. Don’t worry, you don’t have to think about it; I’ll pick something out,” he added hastily, when he heard Berenger draw breath for more protests. “I’ll just have the jeweller send you a bill. We’ll use Arastes – he’s Akielon but his craftmanship’s the best, and the King will like it.”

“It was meant to be a gift for _you_, not an excuse to cover me in baubles-” Berenger began, then evidently saw something in Ancel’s face he recognised, and raised his hands in resigned surrender. “Oh, very well. I’ve not the energy to argue with you at any rate. You’ve shattered me. Do what you want.”

“Oh, I shall,” Ancel assured him, smugly.

***

“What’s this?”

Berenger blinked at his wrist, for all the world as if he’d entirely forgotten their conversation from a few days ago. Ancel had strolled into his office after a perfunctory knock, grabbed his hand, and without ceremony snapped the cuff on his arm. Still holding Berenger’s hand, Ancel perched on a corner of the desk and critically examined the way the cuff encircled Berenger’s wrist. Pleased with the overall picture, he nodded. “There. That will do. The jeweller just came,” he added, at Berenger’s dumbfounded expression. “I was going to wait till after dinner but I got bored. Oh, here’s the bill, as well.” He dumped it on the desk for Berenger to wince at, but Berenger hardly gave half a glance to the outrageous figure before returning to look at the cuff.

“Well. This is… I’d expected something different,” he said eventually. His tone was strange; Ancel couldn’t quite make it out.

He frowned, a trace of uncertainty sneaking into his impatient excitement. “Don’t you like it?”

He looked at the cuff again, doubting now what he hadn’t doubted before. It wasn’t something he’d have chosen for himself: the broad, unadorned band of solid white gold was too unassuming for him, and the single black onyx, though fairly massive and polished to a fine midnight sheen, was not his style or colour. It captured and reflected the polished glow of the cuff, though, catching the eye with its simple lines and obvious craftsmanship. It set off Berenger’s dark hair and eyes, his stern clothing. It was subtle and severe, and there could be no doubt about its worth.

Ancel bit his lip. “I thought it suited you.”

Berenger lifted his eyes to Ancel at last. His brows were drawn together in a half-frown. Ancel opened his mouth to complain about how much he’d had to argue with the Akielon jeweller, whose command of Veretian was minimal, and how he’d personally discarded about a dozen onyxes that were not suitable, and how if something this simple wasn’t dull enough for Berenger, next time he’d just let him show up at court in braided leather like a bloody savage. Before he got started on any of it, Berenger moved suddenly, grabbing the fine silk of Ancel’s shirt and dragging him towards him.

Ancel nearly toppled off the desk and caught himself with a hand on Berenger’s shoulder. Berenger was kissing him with singular fervour, which had to be a good thing, Ancel realised with some relief, before the kiss made his thoughts all foggy.

They were both breathing hard when Berenger let him go. Berenger was staring at him intently, his cheeks flushed and his lips still parted.

“You like it,” Ancel stated, unable to keep the smug note or the smile out of his voice.

“I like it,” Berenger said. The hand with the cuff was on Ancel’s shoulder; from the corner of his eye, he could see its cool monochrome glow. His own cuff, all shades of rose and red, preened more brightly against the plain linen of Berenger’s shirt.

“Well, good,” he said briskly, to mask the fast thud of his pulse. “Don’t forget to pay the jeweller.”

Berenger’s lips twitched slightly. “I won’t.” He kissed him again, solemn and thorough, as if it meant something, but then all of Berenger’s kisses seemed to mean things. Ancel thought he was getting used to it but it was still, at times, unsettling.

Eventually, Berenger let him go and leaned back far enough to gaze solemnly into his eyes. “Ancel?” he murmured, throatily.

“Yes?” Ancel whispered back.

“You’re sitting on my paperwork.”

Ancel scowled at the spark of laughter in Berenger’s eyes, but he slid off the desk into his lap. Crumpled parchment slid to the floor in his wake. 

“Fuck your paperwork.”

Berenger steadied him with an arm around his waist, but put his other hand against Ancel’s chest. “Actually, these ones matter. They’re the Vaskian treaties for the King to sign.”

“Fuck the King.”

Berenger captured his groping hands and shook his head. “You may yet change your tune. I’m taking them to the new palace next week for signing. The court is moving there for the season, and both Kings will be in residence.”

“Fuck the new… wait, what?” Ancel pushed himself up to look at Berenger’s face. Excitement began to tingle in his belly. “The court is moving to the border?”

Berenger nodded. “It’s nothing official, since construction is not quite finished yet, but the residences are done and it’s been decided to stay there for the autumn. The hunting’s good in the borderlands, and the Kings want to encourage mingling.”

Ancel was barely listening, already going through what clothes and jewels to bring in his mind, and wondering who all would be there.

“I’m coming with you,” he said, just to make absolutely certain.

“Of course.” Berenger was smiling in that way he had, where it didn’t show anywhere but his eyes. “I need you to facilitate some new alliances for me. And since King Damianos will be there-”

“Oh, _him_,” said Ancel, snidely, but then he remembered the last time he’d met the man face to face, or rather, cock to mouth, in the pleasure gardens, the furious face glaring down at Ancel. “He’s, uh… not going to cause me trouble, is he?”

Berenger coughed. “I doubt it. Anyway, there will be games, and sports, and fetes and such. I’ll find you a groom for Ruby.”

Ancel waved that away. “Don’t need one. None of them know how she likes things. I can take care of her.”

There was a long silence, in which Ancel found Berenger’s face hard to read. “What? I don’t _just_ give her sugar cubes. I can do it. If you don’t trust me…”

“You _like_ the horse.” The cryptic expression loosened into something very like glee.

Ancel narrowed his eyes. “She’s all right. For a horse.” He lifted his hand so the cuff caught the light. “I like this better.”

“Mhm. Of course.”

“Shut up.”


End file.
